


Hummingbird

by hellhoundsprey



Series: Paradise Birds [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Coming of Age, M/M, Pining, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Top Jeffrey Dean Morgan, closeted jensen ackles, sexual identity struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Jensen’s momma always says he’s so easy to influence. He hates that she’s kinda right about that one.(A prequel toCanaryandPeacock; set in the early 90s.)
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Jensen Ackles/Other(s)
Series: Paradise Birds [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922380
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Hummingbird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



> In the haze of all the memories about growing up, Jeff never made it far up the scale. Just interesting enough to come up every blue moon or so. Irregularly. Always clinging to—shame. Mom’s fault, probably. Like a number of things.

Jensen remembers—sitting out in the garden, by the patio. Jeff showing him pictures of the puppy Uncle Toby and him had rescued the week before: torn leather shoes. A proudly smiling Toby. A grumpy Jeff.

How nice he had thought Jeff was, and how odd it was how rude Mom was to him. Like Jeff didn’t deserve better. Snarls and side-eyes (underneath the usual friendly hostess, of course). Jensen, in turn, had kept his distance; he’d been good enough of a boy like that, back then.

Jeff and Toby, close and familiar, and Jensen hadn’t thought much of it. Only a kid, what, fifteen? He didn’t understand _jackshit_ at fifteen.

Eighteen or so when he heard someone mutter about Toby being single again, and it had clicked, then. Quietly and surely and Jensen’s brain worked and worked and he had been tight-lipped for the remainder of that half-of-a-family reunion. Fruit juice and church pants.

The little scrap of paper with Jeff’s number, tucked into a King novel; inconspicuous. (Your Uncle Toby’s a lame-ass who doesn’t have a cell phone, so, here, if you ever need to talk or sum.) Felt dirty, then, hidden between the pages. Dog-eared. That night, Jensen wondered to whom the puppy went.

Tonight, he doesn’t exactly know why or how it all comes back up. If the text will even go through. Would someone still have the same number they had in literally the last century?

Jensen hits ‘send’ anyway.

~

It’s one of the hotter days of the year with the degrees creeping around the low hundreds. Jensen blinks against wind and dust, his own sweat. The queue is long. He’s by himself.

The asphalt beams with the heat of an almost-done-for day. Industrial style, bricks. Dirt and dust and Jensen has a feeling he should feel more out of place.

He’s let in, of course. Not even an attempt to check his ID. He shoulders his way inside, into the darkness. The AC is barely surviving but Jensen’s grateful for every inch of its effort.

Finally at the bar, he orders a beer. Gets attention and his order and hands over a neatly folded bill; elbows on the counter. He puts the bottle to his mouth, drinks with greed and honest thirst and looks around himself. Still early. Few people, and even fewer of them eye-catchers.

Jensen finds a seat on one of the stools. Digs for his phone and checks it for missed anythings. Nothing. Back inside his pants it goes.

The music is electronic and deafening. His fingers tap along the bottle, off-beat. He fixes the entrance. Drinks.

“Hey.”

Movement in the corner of his eye.

Jensen’s jaw ticks.

“All alone?”

“Fuck off.”

The stranger mumbles, “Okay,” easy and airy and maybe raising his hands in defeat, and Jensen swallows another throatful of beer, peers at his watch. Stares at the entrance again.

Five minutes.

He’ll leave after fifteen. Not a second more.

Seven and nothing.

Jensen sighs, rubs at his chin. Even did a goddamn good job with today’s shave. He feels fucking stupid.

Nine.

“Hey.”

A hand on his back now, big and warm and Jensen’s stomach twists with how he feels his sweat sticking to it through the single layer of his shirt. He turns around to tell the bastard off, bark something obscene and just threatening enough, but he thinks he recognizes that face and—yes. Yes, he does.

An older, gruffer version of the Jeff Jensen remembers smirks, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, huh?” and Jensen clamps his damned mouth shut.

Jeff laughs loud enough for them both.

~

Outside, Jensen is offered a cig. He accepts.

Jeff lights it with his own. Jensen successfully suppresses a cough.

Feels bare, out here under the streetlight. With the lingering warmth of the sun, only just now having vanished behind the hills. Cars pass them by, bikes, and Jensen leans against a nearby pole while he smokes. Holds his elbow, tries to not be obvious about being fully aware of Jeff eyeing him head to toe.

He put the fucking skinny jeans on for a reason.

“You got a ride?”

Jensen shakes his head. Sucks on his smoke.

Jeff offers, “Need one?” with raised brows. Half a nod towards his bike which Jensen ignores. “How’d you even get here? School bus made a detour for you?”

Jensen says, “A friend gave me a lift,” because that sounds slightly more responsible than the simple but dumb truth of hitchhiking and his jaw ticks, hard, for the added glint to Jeff’s eye, the purse of his mouth as he smiles.

“A ‘friend’.”

“Yeah. I have friends.”

Jeff allows, “Okay,” amused and he dips away the ashes of his smoke. He’s gained a few pounds. Suits him. Makes him softer around the face. “So, they’re gonna come pick you back up, or?”

Jensen shakes his head.

Jeff just waits. In jeans as well, decent-looking tee. Flash of a tattoo, and wow, Mom would fucking hate that.

Eventually, “What is this, huh? What are we playing, Jensen?” and a car rushes past, loud and fast, and Jensen’s hair whips into his face with the wind.

He feels sick. Like someone’s lit him on fire on the inside and he’s not burning right.

He blurts, “Are you taking me home or what?” and, cruelly, honestly, Jeff laughs.

Jensen’s teeth grit.

“What, am I not good enough?”

~

It’s a distant notion that he’s being set down somewhere; that he knocks something over as his hand comes down to steady him. The something shatters while Jensen’s getting his belt worked open.

Jeff orders, “Leave it,” and keeps kissing Jensen, yanks at button and zipper and at denim, next.

Jensen’s nearly falling off the table Jeff’s pulling his clothes off him so desperately.

Frustrated growl; Jensen attempts to help but Jeff’s already got him. Mid-thigh jeans, too-tight and tangled. A not-Jensen hand wraps around Jensen’s cock, firm and dry, and he nearly comes apart right then and there.

Jeff’s teeth. Their mingling breaths.

“Jesus fuck you’re wet,” and the curse is maybe even worse than what they’re about to do.

Jeff’s cabin is just far enough outside to not count towards the urbs anymore. Not much more than a shack, really; those _artists_ , honey, it’s just sad if you ask _me_.

Jensen doesn’t expect Jeff spitting on his fingers, expects it even less to have them crammed between his ass cheeks.

Just tumbles, drops further down until he’s nearly laid out on the table with Jeff’s jacket hanging off of him. Jeff’s pushing Jensen’s best button-down up his stomach to get at all that softness and tells him, “Breathe,” and Jensen does, he does.

He’s seen magazines. Video (a few).

Nothing compares.

Cross-eyed so he lets them slide shut. Gets a hand into Jeff’s shirt and—pushes, pulls; he doesn’t know. Huffs, strangled.

“Hurts?”

Jensen nods.

“Just a second.”

A beat, two. Jeff’s back before Jensen can truly wipe his hair out of his eyes.

Fingers again, wetter.

Jeff’s lip rises dangerously, knowingly. “Yeah?”

Jensen supplies, “Uh-huh,” and gets his mouth licked into anew.

The cabin is quiet. No music, no traffic. Just them, their breathing. The rustle of their clothes, of the papers caught and shifting underneath Jensen. The storm of Jensen’s pulse beating inside of his ears.

“Get your leg up here, c’mon—yeah,” and Jensen gasps, then, high and off and oh Lord. His eyes fill with tears. Jeff notices. “Hey—hey, you all right? You okay?” and Jensen nods, of course, oh, please, don’t stop.

He’s throbbing by the time Jeff pulls his fingers free, slaps them across his balls instead—has Jensen jumping and laughs, mean, before he unzips his own jeans to stroke himself. He makes Jensen watch.

One thumb back to where Jensen’s shaved like a girl, where he’s wet and hot now _and he’s never_ ; open-shivered mouth and his hand still fisted into Jeff’s shirt (or cupping Jeff’s neck?) and Jeff asks again, “Yeah? Yeah, you want it?” and Jensen nods again.

Jeff slips a condom on and Jensen doesn’t know what to do with himself when he begins to push into his ass. Hard and hot and thick and Jensen cringes, pained, and he gets both hands on Jeff now but Jeff just keeps sinking himself in there, doesn’t stop, not for a beat, not until Jensen grunts, “Fuck,” and, “ _Slow_ , you fucking asshole!” and Jeff kisses him for that, stuffs his tongue into his mouth for that.

Rocks them together, all the way, and Jensen curls his legs around him, his arms; whimpers because fuck it hurts, he’s so fucking full and he’s crying again, like a girl, like a fucking girl.

Babbled, “Fuck me,” and Jeff takes care of that.

~

The rumble of his own stomach wakes him up.

He groans. Hides his face in the crook of his arm and turns around.

Hears movement behind him, a chuckle, and he startles fully awake for that.

Sits halfway up before he remembers where he is, who he’s with.

Jensen scoffs around his smoke. Keeps his sketchbook in his lap just as he keeps drawing, glasses on and all.

“How’s you? Sleep okay?”

Jensen glares. Gathers the sheets closer around himself. “What time is it?”

“Oh, you got somewhere to be?”

“No,” he admits. “I’m starving.” He lets himself be beckoned over, to the edge of the bed. Peers at the drawing of himself, naked and sprawled out, and he snarls, “Fuck you,” and snatches the sketchbook out of Jeff’s hands.

“I’ve got some leftovers. Chinese.”

“Fine by me.”

“Are you gonna set that on fire with your eyes? Please don’t.”

Jensen gives a strict pan of his eyes to the man already getting up, already settling into nurturer mode.

Jeff mumbles, “I only just started that one,” around his cig.

Jensen eats in hungry silence. Helps himself to the slices of stale bread; beer. Whiskey.

Jeff not-jokes, “Sure got an appetite,” but he’s the one of them coming onto Jensen not ten minutes later, kissing the taste of the cheap booze from Jensen’s lips. Sighs, pleased, one hand nestled just above Jensen’s still-bare ass. Jensen lets him. Kneads at Jeff’s dick through the soft pair of pants that looks like Jeff’s slept in them for longer than Jensen’s been alive, undoes the drawstring so they drop to Jeff’s feet.

Gentle, “Hey,” forehead to forehead, and Jensen blinks at him with his hand in constant movement. “Hey, slow down. Let me look at you right.”

Jensen cringes, but lets go. Puts his hands behind him, onto the small kitchen counter, and leans back. Sucks his belly in just a bit. Glows hot in the anew-setting sun, under Jeff’s heavy eyes.

A brush of fingers down Jensen’s flank. Goosebumps.

“You’re not fucking fair, kiddo.”

Jensen is told to lay on the table they just had their humble dinner on. His ego falters upon Jeff telling him, “Hands up here,” and having them secured with rope. He follows Jeff with his eyes, his mouth a thin line. His knees have fallen inwards to cover himself by the time Jeff’s rounded the table to pry them back open.

Jeff comments, “Beautiful,” and Jensen gets his shins rubbed, his thighs. His ass is hanging off the table.

Jeff bends him in half. Jensen has about enough time to haul in one breath before Jeff leans in to bury his face in his ass, before Jensen effectively, irrevocably, dies of shame.

Babbles half-there things. Can’t say no because it’s so so good, can’t ask for more because the scratch of Jeff’s beard and the wet suck of Jeff’s mouth is too much, too close.

Is reduced to one single, “Please,” with Jeff’s thumb pumping into his ass, Jeff hard and stroking himself and Jensen’s abs are shaking with how he holds his legs out and open.

Jeff licks his lips. Can’t reach all the spit smeared into his beard (doesn’t try). “Please what?”

“Fuck me.” He’s beyond himself. It doesn’t matter, not out here. “Fuck my ass again, fucking _do it_.”

Jeff laughs. Lets go of his cock to bring his hand down on the inside of Jensen’s thigh instead, once and then a couple more times, and Jensen grits his teeth and holds on, tenses and clenches and it’s good, it’s so so good.

Jeff croons, “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

~

Jeff’s got an outdoor shower. He started giving a weak attempt of convincing Jensen that it lets him be closer to nature, but Jensen’s already marked him down as exhibitionist. Hippie.

The towel is old and scratchy but does the trick. “Can you get me back into town tonight?”

Jeff jokes, “Date?” and barely even looks up from his sketch; does a doubletake though for Jensen still being topless, pulling his shirt back on. Jensen gives him a strict glare, stuffs his shirt into his jeans. Jeff sighs. Plucks his glasses from his face to knead at the bridge of his nose, after. “Sure. Yeah, sure.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

The deeper they follow the roads into the guts of the city, the thicker the heat. Jensen’s stuck to the leather of Jeff’s biking gear by the time he gets to swing his leg over and across, climbs off the bike. Jeff stays where he is. Doesn’t ask—stupid questions, like: _will I see you again?_ because he’s not cheesy like that, because he doesn’t _need_ Jensen.

So, Jensen tells him, “I’ll text you,” as he turns to walk down the street.

~

“Any clues for college yet?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, you should. Isn’t your momma worried sick about you?”

Again, “Not really.” Jensen’s been staring out the window for a while. The stranger keeps digging for conversation. Several miles left. Jensen’s had worse.

The car creaks with the fast pace the guy’s forcing on it. He states, “I know a guy,” while Dolly Parton cheers over the stereo. A rosary dangles from the rearview. WWJD? “If you ever need a recommendation letter or anythin’, I can give you my number. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with helping a fine young man to start out on his life, ’s what I always say.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

If he was a girl, he’d have to smile more. As is, he can look bored and distant and even pissed and nobody cares. The guy still smiles like he’s won the lottery while he watches Jensen punching his number into his crappy cell phone. Grips his steering wheel like an excited child. That wedding band gleams in the neon light of the gas station sign.

“Have a good night,” and Jensen tells him, “Yeah, you too,” and walks away with quick, long steps and his breath escaping him in undeserved relief.

He should stop with the fucking hitchhiking while he’s fucking ahead of his game.

If he’d ask, would Jeff come all the way out here, pick him up? Would Jensen want that, to be indebted like that, to someone like Jeff?

Back home, Mom exclaims, “Honey,” and kisses him wet on the cheek. He accepts the heavy pot, carries it to the dinner table without needing to be asked. “You came just in time. How do you always do that, huh?”

Jensen smiles and eats and listens. Cozy, here, in their house, where he grew up. Joshua recounting the game him and Dad had gone to, apparently, in Jensen’s absence, and Mackenzie entertained and Mom just shaking her head, endearing. Cozy. Safe.

His room is unlit, just like he left it. He closes the door behind himself, forgoes the light switch. Cranks up the ceiling fan. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it away after taking a whiff of his armpit—wrinkled nose; should take a shower.

Jensen flops down onto his bed (twin), on his back and one hand finds his sternum, lies there heavy and warm and he just stays here, like this, eyes up on the night-blue ceiling.

He breathes, here, in the silence of their neighborhood. A car passes by, outside, in front of his window. Jensen closes his eyes.

~

“You do this a lot? Hooking up?”

“None of your business.”

Jeff gives him a knowing, pitiful look. “You know who says that? Sluts. Or virgins.”

Jensen urges, “Shut up,” and nudges Jeff’s shoulder, doesn’t even make a dent.

Jeff drags himself out of bed, eventually, to grind up some coffee. Jensen gladly accepts. Finds Jeff’s eyes over where he’s blowing air over his cup. The smallest of wrinkles pull around Jeff’s eyes whenever he smiles.

Low, “You liked what we did, earlier?”

Jensen thinks; remembers. Sips. Gives a nod.

“Cool. ’Cause I wanna do that again.”

Jensen mumbles, “Okay.” Clears his throat.

Jeff’s smile widens. “You too?” and Jensen nods, again, tells him, “Yeah.”

It’s an easy lie to tell himself—that, no, he doesn’t know what he wants. That he shouldn’t, and that he doesn’t, and that he’s only playing along. That nothing about any of this is about him.

Jeff, kissing him—not them, kissing. That it doesn’t feel good to get his hand on Jeff’s cock, stroke him slow and firm like he likes it.

“Let’s take this outside, huh? What do you say?” and Jensen nods, follows, and he burns.

In the sun. Under Jeff’s hands.

Salt and kisses; mouths. The cabin logs dig into his back, the unsteady balance of his foot on top of the stacked firewood.

Closed eyes, nothing but his trembling breath and—feeling: Jeff’s teeth, skating along his neck, down his chest. Chewing on his nipple until Jensen trembles and then curses under the effort it takes him not to pull away. His hands in Jeff’s hair. Jeff’s beard against his skin.

Clear, “Turn around,” and Jensen, he does. Cheek against wood and he pushes his ass out like some cat in spring, and he sweats, and this isn’t him, but it is.

Jeff’s hand claps down over his ass and the sound of it is so fucking loud, so embarrassing that Jensen’s squirming. That it shocks him, and his neck stiffens because oh Lord, but of course nobody would hear them, not out here in the middle of nowhere. The next hit comes just as hard, just as mean, and Jensen braces his hands next to his head for stability.

He doesn’t count them. No need. No incentive. He’s sore; has been before they started. Rekindling last night, this morning. He doesn’t want it to stop.

He doesn’t make a conscious sound until Jeff pushes himself deep, no warning, no preamble. Squishes Jensen up against the side of his house like there won’t be splinters in Jensen’s face from this, as if he doesn’t need any more prep than the earlier fuck from hours ago. Jensen shouts, hurt and angry but his fists stay right where they are, and fuck it hurts it _hurts_ but Jeff’s grunting into the small tiny space in the crook of Jensen’s neck and he’s so warm, so solid and just _there_ , and Jensen’s up on tiptoes and adrenaline.

Jeff fucks him like that for a beat, two. Raw, and it’s just another form of the same violence he’s put onto Jensen with his hands, before. Jensen’s light-headed by the time Jeff pulls out, leaves him on the edge and dizzy and says, “Bed, yes or no?”

Jensen sobs, “No.”

Jeff makes him kneel in the dirt. Dips back inside the house for props while Jensen’s shaking, burning, lets his head hang heavy. The sun is cruel.

Hands behind his back. The nauseating click of handcuffs, the soothing bite of Jeff’s fingers tearing at his hair, pushing him down.

Jensen inhales sand. A pebble will cut into his cheek, but he can’t care. Blabbered, “Please,” and thank God he can hear Jeff getting a condom out, lubing up. The press back in is—a struggle. Jensen doesn’t know what to feel. What he even is anymore.

Just enough pain to keep him spinning in and out. Jeff doesn’t take long.

Brings his hand down over the sting of Jensen’s ass on every other stroke, leans back to get at him right and Jensen’s body bolts, and sings, and thrums.

Jeff helps him get up, after. Wipes the dirt from his face for him, at his eyes, his mouth.

Jensen doesn’t realize the handcuffs are still on by the time they’re back inside.

“On your knees. No, don’t gimme that look, I know you can. There you go. Good boy.”

Hardwood floor. Pleasingly cold in contrast to the ground outside, but Jensen’s sunburnt and hurt. Blinks, exhausted, tries to get a glimpse of Jeff over his shoulder, but all he gets is swimming light and the noise of pencil scratching across paper, and he falls asleep to that.

~

Jensen’s grip in Jeff’s hair tightens further with his groan.

“You’re so good. How’re you so fucking good?”

Jeff doesn’t reply, thank God.

Just keeps bobbing his head, tight and quick, and Jensen’s head lolls back and to the side and he’s dreaming. Still. Again.

Babbled, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop,” and of course Jeff doesn’t.

He’s had girlfriends. A couple of ’em. Semi-serious, because of course. Of course. He always says he is, and he always hopes he _is_ , this time. But no matter what, it never was like…this.

He can’t look at Jeff once it’s over. Gets a chuckled, “What?” half-offended but Jeff’s old enough to let someone mope if they think that’s what they want. Rolls out of bed to get to his sketches, probably. Always his art.

Jensen curls closer in on himself with the sheets pulled over his head. He should get back home tonight. Got his marketing course tomorrow morning, half an essay he’ll somehow have to manage meeting the deadline for.

He hates it. Hates how harder and harder it gets to climb off Jeff’s fucking bike and pretend that nothing matters. That he’s all casual about this shit. Because God, fucking God, he wishes he was.

Jeff tells him, “See ya,” and in another universe, Jensen turns back around and kisses him on the mouth. Where he is enough of a man to not already be counting down the days, hours, minutes until he can be right here again.

Mom’s making tortillas tonight.

~

The backhand forces a gasp out of Jensen.

Jeff’s fingers flirt up his throat in silent apology.

“Okay?”

Jensen nods.

Gets another.

“It’s gonna swell.”

“I don’t care.”

Another. “Don’t lie.” Another. “Not with me. No need for that. You know it.”

Jensen gasps, “Yes,” and somewhere between the next slap and a few more hours, it turns out it’ll be the last thing he’ll have said for a while.

The old chair is sturdier than it looks. Jensen’s blinking fast with the tears welling up (a simple physiological reaction) and the ropes churn down harder into his skin as he attempts to shift, just a little, just out of the discomfort. Hears Jeff tutting at him before he pulls something over Jensen’s head, and the world turns black.

Jensen feels his breath hitting him back up against the fabric of the hood. Closes his eyes and tries to relax, sink into this, allow it. He’s so fucking hard the throb between his legs and on the side of his face don’t differentiate much.

He hears a chair screeching over the floor, how Jeff settles in, turns a page. Pen on paper. Drawing him, again.

Jensen trembles. His thighs are spread wide, bound into place. His arms begin to go numb with how they’re pulled back and down the backrest of the chair.

Indefinite time passes. The thrill of Jeff finally getting back up, setting his work down, is enough to bring the tears back into Jensen’s eyes.

Shifting of clothes, so maybe Jeff’s crouching down in front of him. And, yeah. A gentle hand on the inside of Jensen’s thigh. A thumb to the crease where leg meets hip. His cock lurches unasked for.

Sweet, “You cryin’?” and Jensen wouldn’t speak even if Jeff wasn’t flicking his tongue across his balls. “It’s all right. I got you.”

Jeff sucks his balls into his mouth, one after the other. Pinches thumb and pointer finger over one nipple and tells Jensen,

“Shhh,”

before he twists, hard, and Jensen’s mouth opens, unseen, without making a noise.

He’s good at holding things in.

Jeff continues to suck him off. Eventually has both hands on one tit each, twisting and flicking and nails digging in, and Jensen’s sweating so hard he feels his skin slippery on the wooden chair. Can’t warn, can’t plead, just lets Jeff take care of him like this and work him to a numbing orgasm that has Jensen jolting in his bondage, against the rough hemp of the ropes and the cramps in his muscles and he’s quiet, perfectly so, even as Jeff teases him further and beyond.

Held up by nothing but the ropes, he thinks about how easy it would be to just pass out, and then simply does.

~

Jensen doesn’t dream, out here. Doesn’t think about college or his family or his friends back home. A separate reality.

It’s cold, at night. The desert sleeps rough and won’t have pity on you.

He sneaks out of bed. Jeff keeps on snoring.

He thumbs on the camcorder. Reverses the tape, mutes the audio. Watches.

Rewinds again. Watches again—himself, through Jeff’s eyes. Anyone’s eyes.

Himself, lost in passion, in the moment. His mouth morphing open and his face all flushed, hair a mess. It could be anyone. Someone else. Not himself.

He puts the damn thing back down. Slips into the bathroom to take a leak and crawls back under the covers, after.

Jeff mumbles, “Can’t sleep?” barely conscious and sleep-soft and Jensen just makes a noncommittal noise, but Jeff pulls him into his arm anyway.

Jensen worms out of the one-sided hold as soon as Jeff’s breath has flattened itself back out.

~

College friends are plenty and superficial. Jensen’s okay with that. It’s all vitamin B around here.

Music and cheap beer; house parties of someone whose name he can’t remember, but ‘his dad owns, like, ten Walmarts,’ which must be the worst lie Jensen’s heard in a while but he’s stranded and lonely so why the fuck not.

Arms around him, chatter. Beer after beer and a game of pool. Screams from a girl who’s getting thrown into the actual pool just outside, and Jensen blinks, irritated, while nobody else seems to have noticed.

Pretzels, peanuts. Business talk. Maybe he’ll switch his major. Can’t wait to move out, ugh, right? My mom’s on my ass twenty-four-seven, dude, and Jensen cracks half a smile. “You know what I mean.”

Hours and hours. Warm, here, with all windows open and the garden warmed up along the day. Condensation has Jensen’s hands wet, keeps his thirst going. His hair is getting long. He should get a trim one of these days.

Beer-breath and, “Hey,” and Jensen pulls away just a little, tells him, “Hey yourself,” and his bud giggles, wasted, as he unzips and pisses into the same toilet Jensen’s currently using.

Jensen hears him saying, “Cute,” under his breath but not really, too loud for that, and Jensen just looks up at the guy and that’s when he notices that he’s said that out loud, yeah. Pales quite a bit but Jensen doesn’t say anything, just zips up and gets some water on his hands and shakes them off as he leaves, gets a hand on his shoulder and a, “Wait,” and Jensen doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.

Teeth and belt buckle and, “Quiet,” and he’s taller, and it’s dark, but he doesn’t need to see.

A key on the outside of a closet door, and it fit into the according lock. Jensen’s got the guy’s hand on his cock before he can even begin to panic about what the fuck he’s fucking doing.

Choppy little, “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” breathless and he can’t get quite hard due to the booze but he tries, and Jensen knocks him harder against the wall and the clothes they’re hiding in, and the guy whimpers and Jensen gets a second hand down there, grabs at those nuts and squeezes them good and grits, “Yeah?” and his friend—Gus, Chuck, whatever—just splutters, nods furiously and jerks Jensen off even more furious. It’s not good. It doesn’t have to be.

Jensen comes, shaking like a dog, pressed up against a leg that isn’t his, groaning into a shoulder that isn’t his. The guy pats him on the back. Jensen’s eyes feel wet.

He wipes at them. Pushes the guy away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Fuck.” He tucks himself back into his jeans, zips up. “Shit.”

“I won’t talk if you won’t,” is the best thing he’s heard all fucking night.

He still throws up all over the stairs.

~

“Where’s the dog?”

Jeff grumbles, “What dog?” without looking up from his drawing.

It’s a cozy day. They still got all of today, maybe tomorrow if Jensen feels generous. Jensen’s got his arms crossed behind his head. Looks over—at Jeff, by the window, bent over his work. Fully absorbed.

How obsessed he is, always. With either Jensen or his art or fixing a pot of coffee. Always a hundred percent invested. Jensen’s never met anyone like him, and doubts he ever will.

Which is okay. The world can only take so many Jeffrey Dean Morgans.

“The rescue. Y’know.”

“Oh, he kept him. Why?” and Jeff looks at him, then. Squints and frowns and he looks older like that, and Jensen feels stupid. Naked, on this bed that isn’t his own. Post-orgasmic and dumb.

Jensen shrugs. “Just wonderin’.”


End file.
